


half a man shivering in the flock of himself

by maricolous



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Dysfunctional Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Religious Conflict, Unhappy Ending, spoilers for c2e110
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26623522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maricolous/pseuds/maricolous
Summary: An oath broken must be absolved, but the universe seems to conspire to keep Eadwulf from doing so. The return of Caleb Widogast and the introduction of his pink-haired friend may be a blessing or a curse.
Relationships: Astrid & Eodwulf (Critical Role), Astrid/Jester Lavorre, Caduceus Clay/Eodwulf, Eodwulf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 8
Kudos: 68





	half a man shivering in the flock of himself

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to anyone who came here for romance because this is: not that. anyway i feverishly wrote the first half of this two hours after the episode ended, and then it turned out my idea of dynamics weren't quite aligned with the people i was following but fuck it! horny bastards r us up in here. i made eadwulf a paladin, oath of conquest. for the angst and nothing else. thank u.
> 
> the title of this fic is taken from the language of the birds, in richard siken's war of the foxes

Fate contrives to bring Eadwulf into Bren — Caleb. Caleb. Not Bren, but Caleb. Astrid adapts to the change more quickly — Caleb’s orbit. And by fate, he means the Matron. And with Caleb comes his ragtag group of friends, and among those friends is the firbolg. Eadwulf’s gaze is always drawn to the firbolg, even when Caleb’s gravity makes it near impossible to look away. It’s hard to get his fill of staring at Caleb like this, but Caduceus Clay is a sight himself.

They have, somehow, run into each other in the street this time. Eadwulf is not the most observant when things are on his mind. It’s a flaw in his work, one that Astrid and Bren — Bren was then, Caleb is now, or is that rude, it probably is, Caleb past present future — had teased him gently about, when teasing was something they could still do. He knows the Mighty Nein is around, caught sight of Caleb’s back as he swept into a tavern earlier, and he’s so deep in thought about whether he should have said hello that he doesn’t realise the man in question is nearby until they quite literally walk into each other.

“Oh, best be careful there,” Caduceus says, and Eadwulf can practically feel the rumble of it in the moment he’s pressed close, before Caduceus gently sets him upright again.

“Ah. Hello,” Eadwulf says automatically. “It is good to see you.”

“And yourself. You look well,” Caduceus says, smiling gently. “I won’t keep you if you’re busy. I assume you are.”

Eadwulf should agree and take his leave. Everything gets back to Trent eventually. He and Astrid don’t dare to accept Caleb’s further invitations of company because Trent will know, one way or another. But, he reasons, he hasn’t even seen Astrid this week, the only friendly company he usually is allowed. He deserves some friendly company. He’s been working hard.

“I was just on my way to the temple,” Eadwulf says, meeting Caduceus’ gaze, which is pink and polite and piercing. The alliteration is nice. Caduceus Clay is pink and polite and piercing. It’s a delight Eadwulf holds in the back of his mind. “You may join me if you wish.”

“You did mention the Matron,” Caduceus recalls, falling into step with him. “You’re a follower of hers?”

“Yes,” Eadwulf says, trying and failing to take the lead as they walk. “I am. You are a man of the cloth yourself.”

Caduceus lets out a soft hum, neither agreement nor disagreement. “I have my beliefs.”

Eadwulf casts a pointed glance at the wooden spiral in Caduceus’ ear but he doesn’t press. This is nice. An accusation of unlawful worship wouldn’t do. He’s heard the arguments among followers of The Lawbearer just enough times that it does strike him as odd to outlaw The Wildmother. The gods are not abstract concepts. They are real. Their love is real. He says none of this aloud, because he knows better. The fact that Trent allows him to keep a shrine and go to the temple is about as much as he can expect in terms of personal freedom.

For so long, he didn’t let it bother him. Now it bothers him endlessly.

The temple is quiet, lit dimly by only the candles that other worshippers have lit. Eadwulf makes his way to the front of the temple in silence, kneeling before the statue of the Matron of Ravens, bowing his head. He wishes, sometimes, that he could speak to Her the way that the priests do, but he feels Her guide his every killing blow and that’s enough most of the time. He focuses on the quiet, on the heaviness that comes with the worship of Death Herself. He thinks of blood on his hands and the blood becomes strands of silky copper hair and that becomes waves of pale pink, and he opens his eyes before it can go further.

Caduceus Clay is beside him when he lifts his head, those piercing eyes fixed on the Matron’s impassive mask. “I am familiar with her, in my own way.”

It feels wrong to speak aloud in the temple and Eadwulf never has before, but there will be no time for this conversation once they step back into the world. Eadwulf has his place, and so does Caduceus Clay. Those places are not compatible.

“Oh?”

Caduceus smiles, a crooked little thing, as if pleased that Eadwulf asked. “My family is descended from a champion of the Matron, if the stories are to be believed. And we tend to the dead. I grew up knowing Her domain intimately, and it’s certainly influenced the manifestation of the power that the Wildmother has given me.”

To hear him say the name of his god, forbidden in this country, feels obscene. There are no priests within earshot but Eadwulf feels his heart race for the briefest moment. He can’t discern whether it’s fear or excitement.

“I see. That sounds fascinating,” Eadwulf says, before standing. Caduceus stands as well, wincing slightly when his knee cracks, and Eadwulf feels himself drop again and rest a hand on Caduceus’ knee before he realises what he’s doing, infusing the joint with a cool burst of magic.

“Oh. That’s not —“ Caduceus’ ears flick as Eadwulf stands once more. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

“It was nothing,” Eadwulf says brusquely. “I must be on my way.”

Caduceus says something as Eadwulf walks away, but Eadwulf refuses to hear it. His day and his mind have already deviated too far off course.

—

Eadwulf dines with Astrid when he can. It’s never as often as they prefer.

“I saw Caleb today,” he says, as they sit over bowls of warm stew and fresh bread. “He looked well.”

“Did you say hello?” Astrid asks, carefully peeling the crust of the bread away in bits to drop it in the stew. She claims she’s never liked the crusts, complains they’re too hard for her delicate palate, but she always eats them the second they’re soggy with broth.

Eadwulf loves it. He loves her with a fierceness he doubts any other person in Exandria can understand. Not even Caleb. “It was only in passing. I did not have a chance to say hello.”

He didn’t try. Astrid knows it, but she doesn’t say anything. She just nods, fishing her soggy crusts back out with a spoon, eating them piece by piece.

Eadwulf shreds the crust from his own bread and drops it into her bowl, and they smile at each other.

—

When he does see Caleb, it’s at an unexpected location. The Mighty Nein rarely go anywhere by themselves and they are particularly protective of Caleb. For some reason. Eadwulf can’t fathom thinking that Caleb needs anyone’s protection when he could immolate them all with a single gesture. Eadwulf misses knowing exactly what’s happening inside Caleb’s head. With Bren it was easy, breathless excitement whenever he learned something new, a fervent sheen in blue eyes as he managed to solve one of Trent’s many puzzles. A night spent squeezed into a single bed while they ignored the wet spot on the other bed in their room.

Looking at Caleb now, Eadwulf wants to crack his skull open and peer inside, get past the guarded gaze and eternal downward curve of his lips.

“Wulf,” Caleb says, fiddling with the scarf draped around his neck.

“You look good,” Eadwulf says. It’s his new greeting. He’s committed to it. He doesn’t ask what Caleb is doing at the academy. “That’s a nice scarf.”

“Ah, thank you,” Caleb says, gazing up at the tower behind Eadwulf. There’s the faintest flush springing to his cheeks. Pretty as ever. “Is he in there?”

“No,” Eadwulf says. Trent does little on the academy grounds now, but that isn’t what Caleb asked. Eadwulf answers what’s asked of him and no more. It’s for the best.

He rubs a thumb under his mouth as Caleb stares up at the tower again. Such a delicate throat, Caleb has. He imagines his fingers brushing against the skin there, imagines unwinding the scarf and tying it over his eyes and how nice Caleb’s mouth might look gasping and open.

“I should go,” Caleb says eventually.

Eadwulf nods and steps back, but he claps a hand onto Caleb’s shoulder and squeezes it firmly as Caleb walks past him to leave the campus. The memory of his sharp inhale makes a good friend when Eadwulf returns to his lodgings that night. Imagining Caduceus Clay vulnerable is impossible, but when he imagines Caleb under him, flushed and gasping like he did at just a hand on his shoulder, Eadwulf can see why one might want to protect him. It would make the undoing sweeter.

—

It’s easier to ignore the barbs of Master Ikithon’s words when his arm feels like it’s been set ablaze. Eadwulf never bothers to argue when he’s dressed down for his failures. He knows the script to follow as well as Astrid does, though it is harder without her there to remind him of the cues and with the pain driving him to distraction.

Unmitigated disaster, poor leadership, Bren would never make such a mistake, even Astrid knows better, it reflects so terribly on Eadwulf as a senior Volstrucker to have lost a mark to one of the newest cohort, how could he have let the mark escape, how lucky he was that there was someone else competent there. It’s a variation on a theme, but this time the Matron seems to be in agreement with his master.

He’d hesitated. It was only for a second, the briefest weakness where he thought of Caleb’s freedom to do right in his own way and the way that Caduceus Clay had regarded him when he said he liked him, and all the nonsense about pain and love and making a better world their lot had spouted. But it was enough time for him to get socked in the face and for a younger Volstrucker to dive in and save the entire operation. He hesitated, and in that moment, he’d failed to douse the flame of hope. There is no room for hesitation in conquest.

When Master Ikithon finally releases him, he heads straight for Astrid’s cottage, digging his fingers hard into his upper arm where his tenets were branded upon the swearing of his oath. It had burned fiercely then, and this feels much the same. He doesn’t dare to uncover it and see the words inflamed and furious at his failure to uphold them.

Astrid has never set wards against his entry, nor he against hers, so it’s no surprise that the door swings open at his touch. What is a surprise is the sound of conversation, a bright and cheerful voice that it takes him a moment to place as belonging to the blue tiefling.

Both Astrid and Jester Lavorre turn to the door when he steps through, Astrid stiffening and Jester frowning.

“Ah, I didn’t realise you had company,” Eadwulf says. “Excuse me.”

“It’s fine, Wulf,” Astrid says evenly, standing. “Miss Lavorre was about to leave —“

“No I wasn’t,” Jester says, but she’s still watching Eadwulf. “You look like shit. Do you need healing? I can do that, I don’t mind! Caleb would be suuuuper mad if I didn’t help his friend when I had the chance.”

It’s the way Jester is seated, her boots tucked messily under her chair and feet tucked onto the cushion that clues him in. This isn’t the first time she’s been here.

Astrid has kept a secret from him.

“I must be going,” he says, stepping back when Astrid steps forward, like the world’s most tragic waltz. “Have a good evening.”

Astrid calls after him but he makes it to the gates of Ambition’s Call’s grounds before he looks back to check if she’s followed. For the first time in their lives, he’s walked away from her. And for the first time in their lives, she’s let him.

—

Nature is not calming. The calls of night birds and buzz of insects among the plants of the public gardens only seem to inspire further ire as he cuts his way through them to get to the Matron’s temple. The accursed burning in his arm has not stopped and it won’t until he’s atoned for his failure. If he has to personally drag the priests from their beds to do it, he will.

At least, that’s the plan until he sees them. Caduceus Clay and the half-orc, Fjord?, sitting together under a tree. They both have their eyes closed, and Caduceus is speaking, though Eadwulf can’t hear him from this distance. He takes in the way that Fjord’s foot bounces through their apparent meditation with distaste. What good, he wonders, is a paladin who can’t be bothered to focus on communion with their god? With such a captivating speaker as Caduceus Clay, Eadwulf can’t imagine being distracted.

He watches them from behind a tree, studiously ignoring the searing pain of his brand, until their incense has burnt all the way down. Fjord puts a hand on Caduceus’ shoulder before he stands, and they exchange a smile that pulls tight the knots in his stomach. Caduceus raises a hand and waves as Fjord leaves, and then closes his eyes again as he begins tracing the runes for the Sending spell.

It’s foolish, to be so unaware in a city like this, but Eadwulf is barely within earshot when Caduceus turns to him, eyes bright and unsurprised in the light from the lamps along the garden path, dropping the spell before he finishes it.

“Hello,” Caduceus says, smiling in that gentle way that Eadwulf finds himself already growing to enjoy. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Am I disturbing you?” Eadwulf asks.

“Not at all.” Caduceus unfolds himself from the ground and stands, hovering over Eadwulf in a way that’s somehow not threatening. “What can I do for you?”

Eadwulf feels reflexively defensive, offended at the suggestion that he might require assistance, but the brand on his arm throbs hard and he grips it again, as if that will stop it. “I need… I need to ask a favour of you. You are not a priest of the Matron, but you have a connection with her, yes?”

“That’s right,” Caduceus says, looking at his shoulder. “I’ll help however I can, if a priest if what you need.”

“I need absolution,” Eadwulf says, practically trembling with anticipation. The idea of approaching the priests at the temple has always left him with a vague sense of dread, but asking Caduceus lights something hot and desperate inside him. “I have broken one of my oaths.”

“Ah…it’s been a while since I’ve done this,” Caduceus says under his breath, more to himself than Eadwulf, but he nods. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Eadwulf says, sinking to his knees.

Caduceus gives him a long quiet look, but he nods. “Please, champion of Death and Her domain, tell me what you’ve done.”

“I have failed to uphold the tenets of my oath to the Matron of Ravens,” Eadwulf says, looking up at Caduceus, admiring the pink glow of his eyes in the light of the oil lamps. He digs his fingers into the brand, already trying to discern any difference in the pain. “At a key moment of conquest, I hesitated, and in so doing, broke my oath.”

The corners of Caduceus’ mouth go tense as he lowers himself to a knee as well, putting a hand over Eadwulf’s on his shoulder. “May I?”

Eadwulf’s hands shake as he works open the buttons of his jacket and the laces of his shirt, pulling both off his shoulder to reveal the inflamed brand of his tenets. When Caduceus touches the brand, his fingers are silk-soft and so cool that it’s like a balm on his skin.

“Conquest,” Caduceus says, tracing the letters. “Douse the flame of hope. Rule with an iron fist. Strength above all. You chose this?”

“Of course,” Eadwulf says, frowning at the tone Caduceus’ voice has taken, as cool as the fingers on his skin. “It is the best way to honour the oath I swore to my country. We cannot be weak. I cannot be weak.”

“You believe that,” Caduceus says, voice thawing into something akin to pity. “But this…I can’t absolve you of this.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s misheard. What reason could there be for Caduceus to deny him what he needs, when he’s otherwise been so unfailingly kind despite what Eadwulf does. It’s been no secret. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m sure there are priests of the Matron who can help you atone for breaking your oath,” Caduceus says, slowly withdrawing his hand. “But I can’t. The suppression of hope is not something I can support, and it would go against my own ideals. I may not be bound to an oath in the way that champions like you are, but I still have my beliefs. Conquest is…something I simply can’t agree with. I am sorry. And if ever you decide that a different oath might be better suited to you in future, I’d be happy to help you with that. But this, I’m afraid, I won’t indulge.”

Eadwulf yanks his shirt and jacket back onto his shoulder and stands, glaring down at Caduceus. “There is nothing inherently wrong with conquest. It is what is needed sometimes.”

Caduceus stands as well, a sympathetic look in those pink eyes. “I know you believe that. I hope one day you’ll see why that isn’t true and I do hope that you receive your absolution, but it won’t be from me. Not tonight.”

“Fine,” Eadwulf hisses. “Thank you for your time.”

Caduceus looks him right in the eye and his stomach lurches as he stalks away.

“I hope things will be better when next we meet,” Caduceus calls.

Eadwulf makes the decision not to answer.

—

He nearly wastes the first word of Sending on using the wrong name, but Caleb agrees to meet him at the inn that they occasionally crashed at after a long night of drinks and dancing, for brief respites from Master Ikithon’s watchful gaze. He likely always knew where they were, but they never got in trouble for it. It’s the only place he can think to meet Caleb. His jacket is still hanging open when he arrives and the alarm in Caleb’s eyes at the sight of his dishevelment is gratifying, that Caleb still cares so much about his wellbeing.

“Did you get us a room?” Eadwulf asks, foregoing Common since it’s just the two of them. The gratification deepens at the realisation that Caleb has actually come on his own. He knows Caleb saw Astrid alone before but what they had was different, despite the tangled overlap of feelings among the three of them.

“Ah, yes,” Caleb says, leading the way up the stairs. “What’s happened? Is it…”

“No.” Eadwulf watches Caleb’s back as they walk, appreciates how long and shiny his hair has gotten, as vibrant as the flame he uses to protect himself.

Caduceus may be unwilling to absolve him of his failures but where better to seek atonement and relief from the searing in his arm, than in the arms of a man who could set him ablaze with barely any effort? Caleb could burn him from the inside out, cleanse him of the dark cloud of failure that hangs over his head.

Caleb is nervous, Eadwulf realises as he shuts and locks the door behind them. He’s curled forward on himself, clutching his arms and digging his fingers into the scars left behind by the earliest residuum experiments.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he assures, stepping closer. “But I have missed you.”

“Wulf…” Caleb says, looking up at him with those luminously blue eyes that Eadwulf has always found prettiest when he lets himself be vulnerable. Caleb now, compared to Bren before, is always vulnerable, but always strong too. The worry and the wariness make for something breathtaking. “What do you want?”

“I think you know,” Eadwulf says, resting his hands on Caleb’s hunched shoulders. Gentle, gentle, mustn’t have the scared animal bolt, he tells himself. “May I? Like old times?”

“It is not old times,” Caleb says but he reaches up a moment later, cradling Eadwulf’s jaw. “You may.”

Caleb’s mouth is soft under his own and his lips part easily for Eadwulf’s tongue just the same as it always did. For all the ways they’ve both changed, Caleb is just as sweet as ever, even with the taste of a cheap ale lingering in his mouth. And he’s so warm as Eadwulf removes layer after layer, his skin already flushing pink and then red as it’s slowly revealed. There are more scars than Eadwulf remembers, and Caleb recounts each one as Eadwulf traces them.

Caleb has missed a decade, but he’s more than made up for it, and Eadwulf shows his appreciation for it by kissing the most gnarled scars among all of them.

“What happened here?” Caleb asks when he manages to extract himself from Eadwulf’s ministrations just enough to get his jacket and shirt out of the way. Unlike Caduceus, his hand is hot and rough against the inflamed brand on his arm, but it doesn’t make the burning worse. It doesn’t burn the pain away either, but Eadwulf gently pulls his hand away.

“Nothing to worry about,” he says.

Caleb looks at him, eyes narrowing, but he kisses Eadwulf again instead of pushing the matter. It’s easy after that, to stop Caleb from asking questions. It’s easy for Eadwulf to lose himself in the heat of Caleb: a hot wet mouth against his skin, scarred flesh flushed red under his hands, tangling his fingers roughly in soft red waves of hair to hear that gasp he’d been longing for, revelling in the tight embrace of Caleb’s body.

It’s not quite absolution, but it’s almost as good.

Later, as the sweat cools on their skin, Caleb rolls onto his side to watch Eadwulf. His hair is in complete disarray, a hopeless mess from the way Eadwulf was pulling on it.

“Wulf,” he says quietly. “Have you given thought to what was said at dinner?”

“No,” Eadwulf lies. It’s weighing on him tonight more than ever, between his dressing down from Master Ikithon and Astrid keeping secrets and Caduceus turning him away. “You know how he is. There is no easy escape.”

“Of course it won’t be easy,” Caleb says hotly, propping himself on one arm to frown at Eadwulf. There’s a mouth shaped bruise on his shoulder that will need covering, unless Caleb plans to explain himself to his new friends. “But it can be better. We can change things. No more children have to be put through what was done to us. We can ensure that once he is gone, it changes. We can help our country without hurting others. Surely…Wulf, surely you understand that no one should have to do the things we did. We were so young.”

“We were old enough,” Eadwulf says, sitting up and starting to pull his clothes back on. If he lingers, he knows Caleb will sway him. Caleb has always had a silver tongue, and a change of opinion doesn’t change the fact that Eadwulf has committed himself to his current path. It will take more than pretty words, he tells himself. “I didn’t come here to be proselytised to.”

“Says the man who follows a god,” Caleb says, voice sharpening. Not sharp with just anger, but hurt as well. Perhaps he is more delicate than Eadwulf first thought. “Wulf, I know you don’t believe in him. I know you follow the Matron but surely you don’t think every death he asks of you is justified.”

“You don’t know what I believe,” Eadwulf says, yanking his shirt and jacket on like a more elaborate echo of his encounter with Caduceus. “Coming to find you was obviously a mistake on my part. Good luck on your journey and goodbye.”

Caleb’s silence is as sharp as his rebuke as Eadwulf leaves and the sensation of his gaze takes the whole walk home to fade. When he undresses at home, his brand has stopped burning. Somehow, the idea that Caleb has absolved him doesn’t bring the gratification he expected, not when he reaffirmed the dousing of hope by dousing Caleb’s.

Sleep doesn’t come easy, but perhaps that’s deserved. He studiously puts it out of his mind anyway, as he’s put aside every qualm he’s felt for the last decade and a half.


End file.
